


Blood and Other Poisons

by HappyDagger



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Conspiracy, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Half-Vampires, Hannibal Lecter Being an Asshole, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Manipulation, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revolutionaries, Serial Killers, Tags Contain Spoilers, Vampire Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Will is a Mess, Winston take the wheel, between the world wars alt history, half-vampires can be made vampires, vampires are born
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-10-12 22:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17476157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyDagger/pseuds/HappyDagger
Summary: Shellshocked Will Graham has an uneasy relationship with his pleasant civilian life. Threats don't announce themselves with bone-shaking booms. He can't return fire when facing abstract things like poverty, starvation, riots, addiction, and people who disappear without warning or evidence.But when he's assigned to catalog evidence in the capital's police station, Will finally finds an enemy he can fight. One man is killing multiple people for fun, for art, and Will plans to stop him if only he can live that long.





	1. Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Abby. He hears rumors about their landlord, Count Lecter.

Seven years ago, a tiny singsong _hel–lo_ welcomed a sad-eyed man to his new home. He removed his hat and tapped it against his thigh to shake off the soot-tinged rain.

“What’s your name?” the little girl on the staircase asked.

“Will.”

Her round eyes were blue as the summer skies he’d watched under apple trees when he too was small and lonely. Maybe that’s why he’d smiled.

“I’m Abby.”

 

The smile led to more mistakes.

 

Abby’s parents lived on the first floor, Will, the third. Most nights, as Will crossed the threshold into the foyer, her father Garrett would bark a muffled, “Lock it,” from behind their careworn oak door.

At first, Will would grit his teeth and imagine the shadowy man with his ear nailed to that damn door. But, eventually, Will came to note it like the chime of a shopkeeper’s bell.

Will’s shoulders only eased apart after locking his own door.

Unless Abby was there.

The evenings Abby sat waiting on the staircase, picking the frayed edges of the patch on her right knee or reading a dog-eared paperback, he’d smile back; smile first. Against his better judgment, through the gift of a book or apple, sharing stories, breaking bread, lending his bicycle, Will grew close to Abby and her mother, Louise.

Closer still after Abby’s father disappeared.

Though the loss wounded Abby, Will’s life brightened since Garrett left for a night shift at the tannery and never returned. In Will’s defense, Abby’s mother looked happier too. In a matter of weeks, she bloomed through the crack she’d make in their worn oak door. Many mornings when Will jogged downstairs, the thin, pale woman’s long fingers would skitter around its edge. Then she’d poke her head out and mention a heavy crate she couldn’t drag to the curb, or a burnt-out lightbulb beyond her reach.

More mistakes.

Isolation suited Will, yet he didn’t mind helping. Abby and Louise’s room felt more alive than his own. He enjoyed the smell of food cooking, the warmth of a fresh mug of coffee, a light touch on his shoulder. Time with them was a welcome contrast to the hours spent sorting through paperwork in a sprawling basement.

 

Will had been a cop once. Still was, technically. Before he got a proper start, the army drafted him, so he identified as a soldier more than a policeman.

Last time he was on the battlefield, a silent forest made of telephone pole trees, the wet leaves underfoot exploded. He doesn’t remember the boom but sometimes he remembers flying so vividly that he flies again through the smoke and dirt. Not afraid but stunned into peace, so cold it burns. Then he can’t breathe and his hand dives into his coat, steadying once it finds the cool flask in his inner pocket.

Beneath a high, white tent an amber-haired nun with deep brown eyes spoke a melodic foreign language and brought him water. Consciousness ebbed and flowed as Will recovered.

Later, he would he’d contracted a fever after surgery to remove shrapnel from his thigh. By the time the fever broke, Will’s injury qualified him for a medical discharge and small pension. Keeping pace with his infantry while carrying 70 pounds of supplies would be impossible but, as a civilian, Will’s leg rarely troubled him. His head was the problem.

Lt. Crawford put that to Will, in professional terms, when re-assigning him to catalog evidence in the police station downtown. To Will’s surprise, he enjoyed the job. Fortune surprised him again with an affordable room in a fallen aristocrat’s compartmented mansion.

The once sprawling manor still maintains illusions of safety and escape in unthinking bleary-eyed evenings. Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, it lies beyond the gloomy reach of the lower east river’s claustrophobic, charcoal sky. An iron fence protects the stately building and an immaculate, potted garden lines the walk to its stone stoop entrance. Will liked his clean room, its large windows, and the new friends he didn’t mean to make on the first floor.

 When happiness visits, Will expects trouble to pursue; a stalking wolf.

 

 

Two years ago, the form of that trouble first availed itself over a cup of bean soup. Abby cracked and ripped the last of the bread then placed the hard-won piece in her soup. “Was daddy a grave robber?”

Louise’s jaw sank and bobbed.

Will swirled a chunk of pork fat with a bit of crust. Since Garrett could no longer prevent it, Abby began attending school which came with its own monsters. “When I was your age, kids told the same story about my father.”

“That he dug up fresh graves by moonlight?”

“Yeah. I got real sick of it and dropped out to work in the steel plant. After three weeks, I realized school was better.”

Abby’s lips drew a small smile.

Louise stared out the window, burning.

“Tragic things happen for no reason. That’s the reality but no one wants to believe it,” Will said. “So we tell fantastic stories, see monsters in the empty dark, and distance ourselves from victims of circumstance with cold, stupid judgment. Your classmates are telling themselves, _It won’t happen to my Pa. He isn’t a resurrectionist._ I’m sorry that you’re paying for their cruel comfort.”

“They’re reassuring themselves because our new world is chaotic. People need order,” Abby concluded and continued eating.

“Yes. People say they enjoy mysteries but they don’t.” Will’s spoon clanked against the clay mug, splashing soup. “They want answers, not questions. If they can sell blaming the victim as a morality tale, fantastic. Everyone sleeps soundly except us.”

He bit into his tongue, unsure what he’d meant by us except that the three of them enjoyed hiding here behind locked doors together.

“Your father was NOT a grave robber,” Louise said at last. Her wide hazel eyes shined like a cat’s. “He worked in the tannery until that ice cold, _foreign_ Count killed him.”

Will looked at Abby, who kept eating, eyes low. “What Count?”

“Our landlord,” Louise snapped. “That’s what Garrett said before he disappeared. He told me he owed that outsider a great debt.” Her eyes found Will’s and narrowed. “He said he affronted the Count. You know people... Abby, I’d like to speak with Mr. Graham about adult subjects.”

But Abby was already excusing herself with a thin smile.

Once her daughter left to sit on the stairwell, Louise continued. “You’re familiar with mixed folks, I assume?”

Will tensed. “What does mixed mean?”

“Mixed with monsters.”

“Why should I know that?”

“Because you were in the war. The thing is…” she chewed her bottom lip and pushed her empty cup away. “Garrett… well...”

Now Garrett’s night shifts, paranoia, and rumors made sense. “I won’t tell anyone,” Will promised.

“He remained loyal to our country,” she rushed to add.

Will put his hands up, uninterested in disputing her claim.

“He was a half-breed.”

“Really?”

“I’m sure Abby has hardly any…” Louise trailed off. “But _he_ is a purebred, blue-blooded monster!”

Will’s brow furrowed. “Who is?”

“The Count.” Louise became impatient. “Can’t anyone else tell he’s a monster?”

“I never met him.”

“Yes, you have!”

A headache bore into Will’s temples. “No, I haven’t.” He gathered the dishes and brought them to the sink. “I signed my lease with his secretary, or whatever she is, and drop my rent in the lockbox installed in the foyer.”

To save something for the reticent mutt who hung around the station, Will drained his soup and wrapped the untouched meat chunks in a crinkled newspaper page.

“But you must have met. He’s described you perfectly.”

Will tucked the paper into his pocket. “Well, I suppose his associate told the Count about me then. He must ask about his renters. What are you trying to tell me, Louise?”

“That he killed my husband, and Garrett is far from the Count’s only victim. You must understand monsters, you were there.”

Will turned off the water. It was too loud, like a freight train whistle. “Where?”

“In the-” Louise voice rose at a steep incline but she stopped, softening her tone, “In the war.”

Will shook his head. His smile was tight and uneven. “I didn’t see much. You don’t mean he’s a…” Will couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Vampire,” she said for him. “If it was possible, I’d take Abby south, away from that monster and the malicious whispers behind every drawn curtain.”

Leave? Will dried his hands then tossed the hand towel on the counter. “I better go to work.”

Louise became herself again and smoothed the apron on her lap as she stood. “At this hour?”

“Yeah, I may have found something important. I organize puzzle pieces every day, now I’ve finally found some that fit together.” Unique presentations of corpses pointed to a prolific murderer killing in cyclical sprees. A current ran through Will thinking about it.

Abby slipped back inside, locking the door behind her. 

“Hang on, I’m heading out, kid. Thank you for supper, Louise.”

 

Earlier this spring, Will had made it to the landing below his floor before he gave in and leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

“A bargain with him is a deal with the devil,” Mrs. Gould shouted below him, on the second floor.

“I said it’s fine,” her husband answered in a tone that did not invite further discussion.

“Remember Max from upstairs? He bargained with the Count and when did you last see his ugly face?”

How long had it been since Will talked to Max?

“People disappear all the time, Margot!”

True, and Max gambles for days long binges.

“I’ve got a sure thing, why can’t you fucking have my back for once?” The door slam reverberated as footsteps hammered down the stairwell.

As he made his way upstairs, the woman asked God what she’d do without her husband. Only Will heard her.

 

Yesterday afternoon, Abby came home to find Will at the foot of the stairs, leaning back on the staircase. Pale and sallow, he lifted his head.

“What happened?” She rushed over, but he jerked back and raised his hand.

“Don’t come too close. It’s only a cold but I don’t want you to catch it.”

Scattered on the hardwood floor lay papers and photographs, fanning out of dropped folders. Abbey bent to gather them.

“No, don’t touch those. Hey!” He stomped on the file she was reaching for. “I’m serious. Please go wash your hands, all right, kid?”

That’s when Abby saw his handkerchief, lying crumpled on a brown accordion folder. Her lips parted as she stood. “You can’t keep climbing three flights of stairs every day.”

Will gathered his things, wheezing. “I’m working on a case at home while I recover. I had all this to carry… missed the trolly…” he waved her away and coughed into his fist.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Will nodded.

“Did they x-ray your chest?”

“Wash up good, Abby.”

Abby had grown into a young woman, limbs thin like a fawn’s. She still had the same large pensive summer sky eyes, round forehead and pointed chin. After silent consideration, she decided. “Move in with us.”

“And get you both sick?” Will rested his elbow on the files in his lap and held his white face.

“Then you’ll move across the foyer, here on the ground floor.”

“Yeah right, what would Stumpy say if I took his room?” With a smile, he nodded toward the door across from hers.

Abby shrugged. “Hank is an annoying drunk.”

“Hey, I’d drink more too if the mortar took my whole leg.”

“It didn’t and you’re not annoying.”

_I’m not?_  Abby was at the precipice of rolling her eyes at Will and Louise for the next five years- not that he was her father. Still, he felt lighter when he grabbed the handrail with white knuckles and pulled himself to standing. “Well, if you and I ran the world from this staircase we’d institute dramatic changes, huh? But I don’t even run this building, so I better get climbing.”

Abby slid her hands into her cornflower blue linen dress. “We’re better than ordinary people. Why shouldn’t we run things?”

Will grimaced for effect. “Go wash your hands, Abby, and lock that door.”


	2. Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Will’s health deteriorates, Abby tries to secure him a room on the first floor.

Awakened by thunderous knocks, Will sat up in his cot sweating.

“Mr. Graham?” a woman called. She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “We’re coming inside now.”

“No, I’m not decent,” he yelled before another coughing fit cut him off. Exhausted to the point of uselessness, Will could only hold his aching ribs and press the handkerchief Louise embroidered with tiny red roses to his mouth.

A petite, curvy blonde strode inside, scrutinizing the room. She opened a leather ledger and jotted notes as large men wearing caps and overalls filed in behind her. “Didn’t the ringing wake you?”

Now Will recognized her; the landlord’s associate. She tapped an old servant’s bell by the fireplace with her pen. “When did this stop working?”

The men grabbed Will’s wardrobe, papers, and footlocker, hauling them away.

“Say, you can’t take my things without consulting me; that’s theft of property!” Will leaned against the wall to stay upright. “You can’t evict me!  I’ve paid my rent in full, on time, for seven years. I’ve received no notices and I reserve the right to an appeal.”

She turned on her heel to face him and said, “Mr. Graham, you’re being moved, not evicted.”

Will wheezed for a moment then caught his breath, “Only… only a doctor can move me into a sanatorium. Are one of these burly fellows a doctor or health inspector?”

“You aren’t being quarantined either so please calm yourself,” she said firmly, with a small, flat smile. “Your new chambers are on the first floor.”

“I… but I don’t know if I can make it down the stairs.” Will cupped his head with one hand, squinting at the movement and change in his room. “You must come back tomorrow night.”

“Alexander will help you make the trip.”

“And just who the hell is Alexander?”

 

Turns out, Alexander was a tall, wiry man with close-cropped, slicked black raven hair, effervescent amber eyes, and telltale translucent white skin. His arms were hard and cold against Will, who kicked out and groaned while being carried downstairs like a child. Most nights he sweats through feverish dreams, but morning hours are by far the most debilitating. Unable to fight Alexander, even in the best of health, Will resigned himself to suffering intimacy with a creature the Army had trained him to see as his enemy.  

At least Will can’t infect him.

Once Will settled on the bottom floor, he calmed down and his hacking cough subsided. Left marveling at how rapidly the men had moved his life, Will succumbed to deep sleep in his new room. Dreams blurred with waking hours.

Someone lifted his head and touched a glass of cool water to his lips. He saw the amber haired nun, a phantom in his closed eyes.

While she faded, hissing gas clouded a muddy trench. Will choked on the pungent smell of garlic before slipping into his mask. Hives bubbled up on his burning wrists as his gloved hands clawed earth to pull himself up into clearer air.

Will rolled onto his back after scrambling out of the trench. He laid on the wet, trampled ground viewing a motion picture. Quiet and eerie, he didn’t even hear himself breathe, although each exhalation sent a retreating fog racing up the bottom of his mask’s lenses. So it couldn’t be a screen he was watching when Smitty helped Will to his feet, or when the gas cleared enough to show the Danse Macabre before them.

Throughout the leveled vineyard enemy soldiers clawed the air, contorting with silent gaping mouths, drowning on land. Their ashen, blue-tinted skin had blistered and burst like boiling water.

Garcia jerked Will’s sleeve and shouted unintelligibly through his mask, thumbing over his shoulder. Smitty nodded and waved Will along to seek higher ground until the gas cleared. No use remaining in harm’s way, unable to see 10 paces ahead. When the gas dissipated, they’d return and stake anything still moving.

Will pulled his sleeves down to cover his wrists and found his rifle in the mud. As light poured through the evaporating clouds, it slipped from his hands.

 

 

“Will, let go,” Abby said, pulling his thumb.

“Where is it?” he gasped.

“What?”

“My rifle. I dropped it in the trench.” He opened one eye and released her wrist.

In Will’s well-lit, clean, quiet room Abby was sitting on the straw chair by his nightstand, brow creased with concern. “Do you feel any better?”

“How did you get in here? Did I leave my door unlocked this whole time?” And how many days had that been?

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I can’t get sick.”

“I promise you can.” With a sigh, Will’s eyes fluttered shut. “I felt invincible for years. And the crazy thing is, the times I almost died only convinced me…”

“That destiny chose you for something special?” Abbey smoothed an errant piece of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, and now I’ve woken up, yet I spend all my time dreaming,” he grumbled, trying to pass a bitter scowl for a smile.

Abby clasped her hands in her lap and rubbed one thumb on top of the other. “You almost died?”

Will nodded, sinking into his pillows. “A few times. I dream about it.”

She waited for him to continue so he explained, “There’s not enough daylight in winter. The first few weeks of war, you hate darkness every time it encroaches on the daylight but before long, boredom replaces dread. Late one boring cloud draped afternoon, my friend, Wetzel, came racing toward us in his Jeep as a thick, black mist came billowing up behind him. He’d rode ahead to scout out the coven we planned on torching but they’d risen before he found it. It was a horrifying moment, but his damn Jeep had this broken,” Will laughed, “whiny pipsqueak horn. There he was, a tiny figure on the horizon swerving wildly, waving his arm and honking this pathetic, nasal horn.” Will’s laughter erupted into wet coughs. “I thought, No, I can’t die now; it’s too ridiculous.”

Abby bit her smile and leaned closer. “They fight by turning into a black mist?”

Will peered at her through one eye again. “You mean the monsters?”

Abby smirked and pulled a folded flyer out of her pocket. “According to this, they prefer people to call them vampires as the term ‘monster’ vilifies them.”

Will groaned and let his heavy eyelids fall. “Their own history vilifies them,” he muttered.

Though no longer a child, Will still cringed imagining Abby interact with street revolutionaries.

On his way home one evening, Will had heard a hardy, middle-aged woman with braided chestnut brown hair yelling from the base of a statue. “What about the starvation we face? Apologists and sympathizers say to give our overlords better food, then when you get on your knees and service them you’ll swallow more protein! We say, it’s time we take our share of the food instead!”

“Why do you collect that propaganda?” Will grumbled.

“I appreciate the art and…” Abby slid the paper back in her pocket, “… it’s exciting. Ancient empires are crumbling. Who knows what will emerge instead? I took a poster off a telephone pole with gorgeous artwork; stark contrasts and heavy shadows. It shows a Blue Blood with golden hair and clear blue eyes sucking the globe cradled in its long, white fingers. It says, Nicholas and Wilhelm have reigned for two centuries, George for five but how many years has a human ruled? King Rama ruled for six centuries, they ought to have included him.”

“The same minority of beings can’t run the world forever; it’s your turn, right?”

Abby pursed her soft rose lips. “But… I am one- a Blue Blood.”

After a struggle, Will sat up and leaned against his pillows. “Mostly human halfling isn’t the same thing. I don’t mean all vampires are evil, only that the old system has to evolve. You and I aren’t responsible for our fathers; how can anyone else be?” 

“But Count Lecter says I _am_ a Blue Blood, not just a vampire or halfling.”

“Count… the landlord your mother hates?”

“She doesn’t understand enough to know what she hates,” Abby muttered, watching her toes tap his faded woven rug.

“Abby,” but Will couldn’t finish. He needed to rest.

“I understand she means to protect me. I’m not angry with her but I still am what I am and Garrett was my only father.” She rose and bent patting Will’s knee through the blankets covering him. “We all make choices to protect people we care for. I had better go wash my hands.”

Will swiped his handkerchief from the nightstand and coughed into it as he waved goodbye.

 

One snowy evening days later, Will sat in his quilt-covered rocking chair, going through the notes and photo duplicates he’d brought home. He’d been let go knowing he could return upon recovering. He’d lost confidence in returning but welcomed the distraction, regardless. Transfixed by a photo of a judge’s corpse, the skin of his back stretched and pinned like butterfly wings behind him, Will didn’t register the voice calling him.

At last, Louise pounded her fist against his door. “Will, help me, help her! Oh, God, Will open the damned door!”

“Hold on a moment, I’m coming,” he rasped. Slow but better than he’d expected, Will crossed the room.

When the door swung open, Louise clutched her trembling hands to her chest. “My God, what’s happened to you? Never mind- he’s coming for Abby! I can’t do it; I can’t lose my daughter too!”

“Wait; who’s taking Abby and why?”

“Count Lecter! She negotiated with him to move you into this room and have a nurse look after you but she couldn’t pay her debt. Now he’s coming for her and I’ll just die if he takes her!  Help us, please!”

Will peered past Louise and found Abby hanging in her doorway, arms wrapped around her chest. She’d been crying.

“I’ll talk to him, all right? I’ll come to another arrangement with him.”

“But…” Louise bit her lip and held her face with both hands.

Will smiled and showed her his bloodstained handkerchief. “It doesn’t matter, I’d rather go fast than in this slow, useless agony.” He saw vampires drowning on the hazy field in his mind‘s eye and recoiled with a shudder. “There are worse things…” Will mumbled. “When should I see him?”

Louise sniffed and swallowed with difficulty. “Oh, Will…”

Abby slinked out into the foyer. “He’s here,” she whispered, pointing at the front door. “Outside, waiting.”


	3. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Count Lecter and goes with him in Abby’s place.

City lights and the phlegmatic drift of riverside smog gave the sky a dull red glow. Silent lighting dispersed behind the factory-pumped shroud illuminating the outline of his imperial form. Though he didn’t affect a thin cane, shining top hat, or lustrous patent leather shoes, Will recognized the Count as a Blue Blood at once. Unbent by mortal corrosions, the tall Count stood straight behind the iron gate. Turned his head and shoulder with the levity and grace of a ballet dancer. 

 

As if he were jumping into a river, Will plunged down the stone steps and walked the flower-lined path leading to the gate separating them.

Gauzy yellow light from towering street lamps illuminated the Count’s cold, smooth features as Will plodded toward him.  Unmarred by scars or disease, his pale gold skin gave him away with its subdued glow and damning blue tint. His sharp brown eyes caught the milky light, shining like amber. Since his service, the vampires’ sharp focus had always unnerved Will, but this one was the worst yet. 

As Will closed the last few feet between them, his black pupils expanded. Predators. Predators perverse enough to look human.

“Good evening,” the Count said with a clipped, yet smooth lisping accent. He wore a pristine worker's cap which matched his three-piece herringbone tweed suit. His polished shoes, long overcoat trimmed with lush black fur, and the paisley pocket square complimenting his crimson silk tie betrayed the Count‘s everyman-look.

Still, Will offered his landlord a customary bow, dipping his head low. “Good evening. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Count Lecter?” His voice lacked the warmth his words pretended because Will is also a liar. Slipping into half-truths and polished falsehoods had likely kept both he and the Count alive during this last tumultuous decade.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Graham.” Blue Bloods' lack of expression goes a long way to hide their sharp smiles. “How may I be of service?”

Scruffy faced and hunched by weakness, Will craned his neck to meet Lecter’s penetrating gaze with large, sunken Mediterranean green eyes. Will’s cap was lopsided, the curved brim worn from being pulled on and off.  Stiff from grime that never came out in the washbasin, his suit no longer kept Will warm. It had been months since he’d ironed his grey striped linen button-up shirt. The new hole he’d made in his belt with the tip of his pocketknife cinched the tailored pants now hanging from his consumptive frame.

“I’ve heard from my fellow tenants you’re a generous man, willing to consider other arrangements when a family is facing, well, hardship.”

“Am I right to assume Abigail won’t be joining me tonight?”

“Oh… I hoped we could discuss that arrangement, yes.” What did the Count know about him? Why had he marched out so unprepared? Because he’d grown soft and death was certain. So what did he have to lose but his adoptive family?

The Count stepped closer, peering between the spiraling wrought-iron spikes.  “You’re offering to take her place?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what that means.”

“Yet you’ve come anyhow, so she can stay with Mrs. Hobbs and continue her education?”

Will pressed his dry lips together. “Yes, I suppose.”

The Count’s void pupil’s bloomed again, his mouth widened by a cool grin. With easy, flowing movements, he opened the gate and gestured down the sidewalk to an idling navy blue Mercedes. A goggled driver in a white cap and duster stepped out from behind the steering wheel and opened the door to a covered cab, surrounded by windows.

“Wow,” Will gasped. “It’s wonderful.”

Lecter warmed and offered to link arms with Will. “Let me help you the rest of the way.”

A pang of terror froze Will’s heavy chest. “No thank you, Count, I’m perfectly capable. I detest receiving charity and,” he winced, “contact, to a good extent.”

Lecter leaned close, bending to investigate Will’s neck and shoulder before pulling back.

“Do you mean to feed yourself on me?” Will asked, unflinching. “I won’t go back on our agreement, just wondering.”

“Have we agreed on to arrangement? I’m glad to hear you think so and I consent. You smell like the Hobbs women, meaning you’re not as averse to contact as you might have me believe.”

They’d both embraced him and kissed his cheek goodbye, insisting Will wasn’t contagious when not coughing. 

“You also emit the pungent scent of arterial blood,” the Count placed his agile pianist's hand on Will’s ribs, “here. This lung is filling with it.”

Will’s shoulders sank. “I’m not getting any better?”

“The respite from coughing results from passing a tipping point; you’re in the storm’s eye, the storm hasn’t cleared.” Lecter’s sharp amber eyes flicked up to search his. “You’ve seen people drained?”

Will nodded, thinking, And their throats ripped out in a frenzy. “I’ve also seen beings drown on the fluid their lungs had become. I’d prefer the former; it’s fast.”

Lecter wrapped an arm around Will as if they were old friends walking out of a pub together and led him to the sleek automobile. “Superb, Mr. Graham but we can’t begin this way. I want you to be honest with me in the future.”

_In the future?_ “Oh, yes, I’m sorry.”

Count Lecter stopped at the open cab door. “I’m not forcing you inside, you must take this step of your own volition.”

Will glanced over his shoulder at the shadows peering through the lit windows on the first floor. He pulled away from the Count and stepped inside the cab.

 

 

Startled by the finality of the door slam, Will tried to keep his composure. Beside him, Lecter crossed his legs and leaned back to consider Will. “You’re in grave need of a bath.”

Will’s head snapped, but he held his tongue knowing it was true. Out of habit, he removed his cap, then questioned himself. Does one remove his hat under the roof of a vehicle? The Count hadn’t. 

Too tired to care any longer, Will rubbed his bearded cheek and let his heavy eyelids fall. The ride was the smoothest he’d had by automobile, bicycle, or carriage and was lulling him to sleep.

“You’re unable to get the oxygen you need, unable to eat, or roam, or think very much. Sleep must be your only comfort… and the right company, it seems.”

“Does sickness spoil blood?”

“Not in your case. Do you know what else I sense in your blood?”

Will glared at the Count from the corner of one eye. “I couldn’t possibly begin to imagine.”

“Can’t you, Mr. Graham or have you forgotten your promise so soon?”

Indignant, Will huffed and blushed. “How, precisely, do you expect a Soul to know what you read with your unnatural abilities?”

Count Lecter crossed his arms yet appeared amused. “Soul,” he spat. “Why must they insist on calling themselves that? If you want to call them people or humans, please do but Soul is beneath you, Mr. Graham.”

Stunned into dumbness, Will pulled back. “Count Lecter,” he began.

“Doctor, if it pleases you or Hannibal since we’ll be spending time together. And your given name, Mr. Graham?”

_Now, who’s feigning ignorance?_ “Will. Dr. Lecter…” but he’d forgotten what to say and rubbed his brow, frustrated.

“Has your memory troubled you since the war?” Lecter asked, his voice a velvet-sheathed dagger.

“Yes,” Will admitted in a raspy whisper. “The disease hasn’t helped.”

“Do you experience tremors or wake up in cold sweats with a fluttering heart?”

Will gritted his teeth and grinned biting out, “Why?”

“You’re fighting still, the war has poisoned part of you.”

“Were you there, doctor? Were you poisoned? Do you see enemies in friends’ faces, drop and roll under your bed when a puttering Model T backfires down the block?”

“No. I was studying in Vienna. I won my share of nightmares treating hundreds of your wounded comrades, but I won’t insult us both by pretending I experienced what you did.”

In his favorite coat pocket, Will found his flask. He ran unsteady fingers through his dark, matted waves as he gulped then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “That’s generous of you. Few people concede to acknowledging to another’s suffering. What were you studying in Vienna?  And, if we’re being honest with one another, why didn’t you help the other Blue Bloods?”

Lecter’s pupils narrowed to pinpoints, making his warm eyes glow in passing street light. “I’d prefer to die rather than crook my finger in aid of those treacherous Imperialist vermin.” His keen, long canines availed themselves when Lecter curled his lip.

Will had never seen fangs up close on a living vampire and found it both fascinating and hilarious in his overtired state. “You were telling me you studied in Vienna?” 

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Graham?”

Will shook his head, tears stinging his eyes. 

“Is my anger amusing?”

Will bit into his chapped lip. “No- I’m so sorry! It’s the stress and lack of sleep, I assure you.”

“I was studying the talking cure, I focused on understanding the universal symbols of our collective unconscious.”

With a bark of laughter, Will fell forward, coughing and shedding tears from the ecstatic thunderstroke of hilarity. 

“You’re mad,” the Count said in a cool tone.

After composing himself, Will sat up, nodding in emphatic agreement. “Something broke, or it poisoned part of me, and sometimes the absurdity of the most important things overwhelms me.” He shook his head as words failed him and offered an open, boyish grin instead. “I am very sorry. You and I, and everyone; it overwhelmed me. We’re animals, animals in tweed suits, giving speeches in beer halls, running lightning through wires, and building war machines. Or fretting over whether to bare one’s head in the covered cab delivering him to his own execution.” While suppressing a sheepish smile, Will rubbed the back of his head. 

Dr. Lecter’s stone expression relaxed into a smirk. “You stood no chance of overcoming Tuberculosis, Will.  You’re a tragic poet.”

“Me?”

“We didn’t agree to your execution but, if you’re seeking reassurance, I’m more than happy to oblige.” He placed a cold hand on Will’s knee and moved in to stare into his large, soulful eyes. “You’re so tired. You should rest now.”

I am tired. Will leaned back and treated himself to closing his hollow eyes. I think I’ll rest a moment. 

 

Deep in thought, Hannibal watched city lights give way to pastoral darkness. A poet could be useful. 

 Will Graham slid toward him when the driver took a sharp turn and landed against Hannibal’s side, warm, complicated, and vulnerable. 

Though it offered no heat in return, Hannibal slid an arm around his passenger to keep him from collapsing into injury. He glanced up at the roof overhead and removed his cap.


	4. Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal wants Will to have a drink. Will wants his host to cut the bullshit.

Folded newspaper in hand, Hannibal stood when Will stirred on the velvet couch in front of his study. He put his desk in order then disappeared down a gaslit hallway.

With a groan, Will pushed himself up to sitting. 

After his vision came into focus, he rolled his head around surveying the bright, clean room he found himself in. Creamy stone walls held a subdued rose gold ceiling high above him. Delicate flourishing black iron railing guarded the drop off overlooking the floor below. Rich colors decorated soft, elegant furniture.

Will let his head hang, held by white fingers sliding through disheveled waves of dark brown hair. The room was so spacious and open, the silence echoed. But he didn’t hear Lecter enter the room. 

Eclipsed by his shadow, Will didn’t jump when the Count spoke.

“Good morning, Mr. Graham,” he said, placing a glass of red wine on the granite coffee table directly in front of Will.

“Is it really morning already?”

“For us.”

Unveiled by a parting curtain of espresso hair, Will's heavy, pronounced eyes rolled up to meet Lecter's. Gray now, though they'd had color earlier. “What will happen now?”

Hannibal is not a liar.

However, like everything he does, he chooses the most expedient way to phrase the precise amount of truth necessary. Ask someone to perform a task and they may, or may not, or may do it terribly. Worse yet, a sharp mind might pluck the desired aim from a command and find weakness there. Better to lead people down a path where they see their own interests aligned with your goal.

“If I cured you tonight, what would you do tomorrow?”

Will held the merlot glass by its wide bottom, leaving oily fingerprints on the crystal, which is fine. It can be cleaned later.

“Well, I think I’d like to go for walks again. Feel the sun and sit under an apple-”

“To come back from the brink of death and seek heat from a ball of gas instead of a fireplace lacks both imagination and ambition.”

Will frowned and set the glass down. Fingerprints for nothing. “Sorry my answer didn’t amuse you. Yes, I’d want to do much more, I’m sure you’d find my list as boring as indulging in the preferred source of heat.”

“I doubt that’s an honest answer.”

Eyes narrowed, Will studied Hannibal, searched his closed expression. “What do you find interesting?”

“At the moment, you,” Hannibal said, taking a seat across from Will. Then, more to the point, “Abby says you’re a policeman.”

“Was once. I filed, organized, and retrieved papers and photographs, which few people consider police work. How often do you speak with Abby?”

“You haven’t touched your wine.”

Again he raised his glass- more fingerprints.

“We’ve talked for years. Didn’t you ever think to ask who she was waiting on the staircase for?”

Will’s fist tightened around his glass. An instant before swallowing, he spat the drink out.

Hannibal frowned. At least it didn’t get on the couch.

“I can’t drink that!” He slammed the drink down.

Wonderful. Now it had stained the carpet. “Mr. Graham, if you could stop damaging-”

“You should have warned me it’s more than wine.”

Hannibal didn’t think he’d know the difference. “It’s hard to watch you suffer. I’d like to help you be more than an emaciated corpse.”

Will’s eyes darted from the glass to Hannibal. “Won’t I taste bad if I drink that?”

Hannibal quirked one corner of his mouth. “You’re so considerate of my palate, but you ought to concern yourself with your survival as well. You wouldn’t live through a feeding, as you are now.”

The crease in Will’s brow showed confusion instead of relief or gratitude.

Bent closer, Hannibal said in a low, gentle, rolling voice, “You should drink that now, it will restore you.”

Blankly staring, Will’s hand drifted toward the merlot glass. His eyes flashed and his hand dropped away. “There are consequences to every decision, more than the simple choice you’ve laid out for me supposes.”

“You’re not drinking?” Hannibal had forgotten what surprise felt like.

“It was much easier to take Abby’s place, ignorant to the cost when disease limited my time. Now you want to change the terms of our agreement, but I can’t without more information. What do you want from me?”

Interested in the challenge, Hannibal tried another approach. “We share a common enemy, on the verge of collapse, but what will rise from the dust? Ordinary people are ready to lead themselves, at last, but they’re lost in the chaos of possibilities. Won’t power remain in the same minority of corrupt monsters’ stranglehold?.”

Will rubbed his pallid forehead. “I assume you have a grand, detailed solution?”

Hannibal pressed his lips in a flat smile.

“What are you asking me to do, Dr. Lecter, in terms of actions, not philosophy?”

“I need help to understand your country, your time. This era is racing through changes so rapid, it’s left me behind, as much a relic as calling cards, replaced twice over by telegrams and phone conversations.”

With two light fingers, Hannibal slid the merlot glass across the granite toward Will. “Abby is wonderful company, I’ve always found her so obliging.” He sat back and folded his long, expressive hands in his lap. “Did you want to break our agreement, Mr. Graham?”

“No, I won't.”

“Good. You’re thirsty, Will.”

Sparkled by a chandelier’s obscure reflection, the drink was lush and sweet on Will’s tongue, though he hadn’t touched the glass. His mouth was dry and bitter, but he still shook his head. “I simply don’t understand! What manner of ‘help’ do you require navigating this world? You want to learn about slang or technology?”

Hannibal's smooth expression crinkled. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Here’s a great first lesson, in the West, we’re more direct than you’re used to as an Eastern Blue Blood. Blue Bloods consider obtuse language refined and polite, but to someone like me, you’re only dancing around the point and it’s uninterpretable.”

“Thank you for that insight."

"You're welcome."

"Let me try a Western approach.”

“Fine idea! What do you want me to do?”

“Drink the glass in front of you now.”

“Oh.”

 

 

 

Moments crept by as they sat in silence.

At last, Will lifted the crystal glass to his lips and let the mix flood his parched tongue with savory, tart and honeyed juices. The warmth of a maternal embrace followed the drink from his numb lips, down his thick throat, and into his cramped stomach, where pain dissolved into sunshine warmth. A tear welled on his lower lid, spreading when he blinked. 

Only once it abated could Will understand the pain he’d been living in. Sweeter still, he sucked in a greedy quantity of air until he was dizzy with it.

Satisfied, Hannibal reclined and tilted his head studying his guest, who sucked down the rest of his drink like a hungry newborn.

When Will set the empty glass on the coffee table, the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. 

“Would you like to tour my home? It’s been years since I’ve hosted company here. Are you able to walk now?”

“Yes, the drink even loosened the vice on my ribcage. I can even feel my toes and fingertips. Unbelievable!” Will rose to his feet.

“Wonderful. Come with me, please. It won’t take long to familiarize yourself, this was a…” he searched his mind and quickly found the best translation, “summer home.”

A few paces behind, Will followed the Count around the railing circling the open stairwell and stared at the geometric pattern of blue-gray river rock on the floor below. High at the center of everything hung a candle-lit, silver chandelier. “It’s beautiful,” he remarked, shaking his head. “I didn’t know anyone actually lived like this.”

Only he did know remotely, unconnected with his experiences, and overridden by the mornings spent tunneling to underground covens, finding the enemy laying helpless, buried deep in the pungent earth. Blue Bloods uniforms were more decorative than functional. They carried nothing with them so they didn’t look like soldiers when the company staked them, blow by hammer-blow. When their eyes popped open, they still didn't look like combatants, they only looked surprised.

They looked like they were asking _Why?_

“Are you feeling alright?”

Will nearly ran into the Count, who had stopped. “What did you say?” he stumbled, meaning, _Did I do something?_ He dug into his jacket’s inner pocket to wrap his trembling hand around the flask.

The Count studied him for a moment then put on a gentle smile as if remembering the role he was playing and gestured to a large mahogany door. “Here is a guest room you can use while we work together. I’m across the hall. Please, don’t hesitate to knock if you should need anything.”

French doors sat at the end of the dark hallway separating their rooms. “Who lives there?” Will asked. “Servants?”

The Count stood and mumbled, “I don’t need staff. You could help me find a modern, modest home. A museum won’t do but no one is buying in this bottomless pit of a market.”

The Count led him back to the study facing the velvet couch where he’d woken. Above a marble fireplace hung an oil painting of a regal couple. Soft lighting made their pale features and richly colored clothing beautiful apparitions in a starless night. The resemblance was clear, though their large, sensitive eyes softened the couple’s chiseled features, whereas the Count’s vigilant eyes were sharp, cooly calculating.

“My parents used that room when they vacationed here, long ago,” the Count explained.

“Oh.” Will hadn’t thought of Blue Bloods having parents before, though he must have known that was the case. “Did anyone stay in the guest room you offered me?”

The Count gazed at the portrait before finding Will’s face again. “My sister. They’re all gone now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Allow me to show you the first story.”

In truth, the manor was not as big as Will had first imagined. Still,  it seemed to him ten families could comfortably live in the place. The handcrafted, antique furniture looked brand new. Perhaps the Count had to surround himself with other pristine relics to belong here despite his family's absence.

When the tour concluded in the kitchen, the Count kept insisting Will must be hungry, only relenting eventually, Will suspected, out of politeness.

“I had so hoped you’d be hungry,” he said with a bitter smile, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “I haven’t cooked for years.” He stared into Will again, his amber eyes glowing against coal-black pupils. “You need to eat,” he said in the same low, rippling, velvet voice he’d used before.

Succulent, red, seared steak seeped in and out of the saliva rushing into Will’s mouth. His empty stomach contracted. With a jolt, Will’s eyes widened with furious recognition. “Don’t pull that shit on me. It’s insulting!”

Hannibal steeled himself. “Excuse me?” he said in an even voice.

“Oh, patronizing me with that innocent act is even worse! I didn’t expect you to hold me in high regard but I thought…” Will clenched his jaw, unable to find the right words. “Well, I thought you wanted me to work with you and since you’re a being who doesn’t settle, I assumed you held a modicum of respect for me.”

The Count’s lips parted. He blinked. Then a smile dawned on his face. “Tell me, was it your mother, your father, or perhaps two grandparents?”

“Who did what?” Will snapped.

“Who were vampires.”


	5. Drag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal digs into Will’s past. Will investigates Hannibal’s goals.
> 
> They find an interest in common.

After absorbing the accusation, wide-eyed and speechless, Will squared his jaw and straightened his spine. “My grandparents raised me since I was eight and they didn’t make it through the lean times,” he said as if the lean times were over.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Where is your mother?”

“She died of consumption when I was seven.”

With a solemn nod, Hannibal gestured to the chair across the kitchen table from him. “Please, sit down, you’re growing tired already. Tell me about your father.”

Still standing in the same spot, Will crossed his arms. “Never met him.”

“Do you know your father’s name or what happened between your parents?”

“What does it matter?” Will exploded. “Yes, I saw him once, we didn’t speak. I don’t care for what your question insinuates about my mother.” Will pulled his flask from his jacket and fought to unscrew the top with his shaking hand.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to insult you. Would you like more of my restorative cocktail?”

The flask Will held sank to his waist. “Well,” he licked his lips, “I- no, I’d better not.”

“But why abstain?” Lecter rose and crossed the kitchen to fetch a new glass. The wine bottle purred as Hannibal pulled it across the white quartz countertop. Red wine glugged into a wide-bottomed glass. “Because your father was a Blue Blood, therefore, you’ll be quick to turn?”

Instead of answering, Hannibal’s guest left.

 

Thunderous footsteps echoed throughout the empty foyer as Will fled from the kitchen. Now the image was in his head and he couldn’t shake or drink it out but had to escape, burning as he stormed to toward the front door.

Lecter manifested five paces ahead.

“Jesus!” Will stumbled back.  

“Where are you running to, Will?”

“Do it!” Will roared. “If you want to kill me, then fucking kill me already!” He reached back over his shoulder just as he remembered his rifle wasn’t there. So he grabbed his pounding head instead, backed into the cool stone wall and tried to breathe, inside ripping the world to gory shreds.

“Where have you gone?” Lecter’s voice was close but Will couldn’t pry his eyes open. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

Under his breath, Will whispered, “I’m not insane, I’m not fucking insane, I’m not insane.”

“Your father must be an excruciating subject. What happened that one time you met?”

“No!” Will tore his hands away from his head then sank into sitting on the floor.

“So weak, your respite was brief and your disease is devouring you again. Still, you resist the miracle cure I offer you. Is your life so worthless that you would give it up to bacteria, receiving nothing in return?”

Will’s gray eyes flicked up. “I suppose I’d rather die than be a killer.”

“But you are already both a killer. Now, as you sit there, struggling to catch your breath once again. Why be a killer suffering a slow, painful death when you can be one who lives for centuries?”

“Are those the choices you’re offering me?”

Hannibal extended his elegant hand. “I can offer you the latter of the two, the former is your status quo.”

“Isn’t a quick death an option?”

“I’m afraid it’s not.”

As Will swallowed, the Count’s hand blurred out of focus. “I am not a monster and I never want to become one.”

“Like the monster who abandoned you and hurt your mother? That’s not your path, Will and no war, blood, or disease will change that.”

With flushed cheeks, Will accepted Hannibal’s hand. After the Count pulled him to standing, he raised his chin to meet his host eye-to-eye. “Myopic focus and hubris create blind spots in brilliant minds. As a good-faith gesture here’s a friendly warning; don’t believe I’m a chess piece you’ve learned to move.”

“Never.” Though Hannibal’s smile was flat, his eyes were dancing. “Will,” he said, placing a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I’m sorry, but I must draw you a bath now.”

With a frown, Will assented.

 

Inch by inch, Will eased into the hot water then sank back in the clawfoot tub with an audible sigh. Not wanting to hack blood onto a stranger’s naked torso, he’d stayed out of bathhouses for weeks now, only washing at the sink when he could manage that.

In shining white and beautiful quiet, Will’s sore muscles melted. When his head rolled to the side, he saw the drink Lecter left through rising steam. A diamond bead of condensation grew fat on the side of the glass.

Will closed his eyes and sank under the water.

 

 

After the bath drained, Will dried his new, pink skin, cinched around his ribs and sinking from his hips. The lush robe Hannibal left him was soft on his raw skin.

Centered on a waist-high pedestal, the dewy glass of tainted red wine waited.

He needed a shave. Best to have steady hands when using a straight razor, in the home of Blue Blood no less

Just a sip?

 

To his wrinkled fingertips Will’s fresh, smooth cheek held a tactile fascination but in the mirror, it was a stranger’s hollow face he touched. Had it been so long since he’d had a proper shave? Had his disease extracted so heavy a price already?

A soft knock on the bathroom door shook Will. “Y-yes, what is it?” He poured the rest of the drink down the sink.

“Mr. Graham, I have an unexpected visitor. I’ve left night clothes on your bed.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Will called, pulling his robe tighter around his chest.

“I’ll be downstairs for an hour, please make yourself comfortable while I’m detained.”

Will nodded then rolled his eyes at himself for doing so when a door separated them.

 

After he rolled the waist of his pajama bottoms to stop them from falling off, Will wrapped up in a matching silk robe and set about exploring the upstairs alone.

With a slight push, the door to the Count’s study drifted open. Newspapers in different languages, pamphlets marked up with a red pen with neat foreign notes jotted in the margins, and propaganda similarly edited laid on his mahogany desk; organized, not hidden. If Lecter didn’t plan on Will finding these papers, the prospect didn’t trouble him.

As Will strolled around examining the books, drawings, maps, and globes, the wastebasket drew his attention. Approaching the trash, he noticed the local city newspaper torn up and mashed into a tight, mangled wad. Not thrown into a fire or crumpled into a loose ball, but attacked with anger and thrown away.

Why?

While he listened for voices, Will flipped through the paper’s remains. The Count split the paper where the crime report section concluded, yet he hadn’t singled out an article for special abuse.

Will dropped the paper in the bin and stood to scan the room. That’s when he noticed marks on the map of Drysdon.

“What?” he whispered.

Behind the Holy Martyrs Church, on the steps of the courthouse, in the underground tunnel to the Senate, why did Will remember these places?

His sick heart thumped in his throat. The murders.

The cyclical spree killer and his victims were a secret, a theoretical case Will worked to build in the police department’s evidence archives.

Maybe Lecter’s outburst came not from a police write-up he’d read, but one he didn’t find, again.

If so, Will shared his frustration though perhaps from an opposite perspective. Either way, curiosity far outweighed the warning humming through his nerves, so he marched downstairs.

Hannibal glanced up and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin when Will rapped at his office door. “One moment, please,” he called. “Lay down until the dizziness passes,” he advised his redheaded guest, her pale face flecked with shades of brown. “Drink water and eat a cracker or two before you leave.”

Just as the Count slid around the office door, it shut behind him.

“Can this wait? I’m with a patient.”

“How the hell do you know about the murder spree?”

“…”

“What’s funny about that?”

“I’m not laughing, Mr. Graham.”

“Your eyes are. I don’t have patience or the luxury of time. I’ve been working on this case for months. What did Abby tell you?”

“Shh,” Lecter glanced back and the office door. “Not now, she’s coming.”

Both Hannibal and Will stepped aside when the door opened.

The woman blushed and turned, attempting to conceal her identity.

Not wanting to embarrass her, Will pretended to find a spot on the floor interesting.

Her freckled hand swept her fiery hair out of her eyes. Lecter had taped two cotton swabs to her wrist. With a brief curtsey, she murmured, “Goodnight, Doctor.”

As she walked away, Will crossed his arms and tilted his head at the Count.

“Yes, she is my patient,” Hannibal answered his accusing stare. “What I performed serves as a medical procedure.”

“And a snack?”

Hannibal smirked. “Would you be happier if I administered a jar of leeches once a week for the rest of her life instead?” He shrugged. “I told her that’s also an option but she finds this way more pleasant. Perhaps you don’t place the same value on free will as I do.”

“Oh, please, you are preying on a cursed woman, spare me your twisted justifications.” Will pushed into the study and sat on a sage green couch with a huff. He pinched his forehead and sank into a thoughtful frown. “What does it mean?”

“Not prey, a partner,” Hannibal countered, appearing before him.

Though his eye twitched, Will could not bring himself to glance up.

“The relationship is symbiotic, not a predatory one. A trained doctor must drain her blood once a month to remove an excess of iron before it damages her joints and organs, and I’m a trained doctor who needs to drain people of blood. The bond is an ancient-”

Will held his hand up. “Yes, I’m familiar with the curse.”

“Was your mother freckled?”

Will looked up now.

“Did she have… auburn hair?” the Count guessed.

Without a twitch or sound, Will reigned in his temper. “I’d like to ask you, in all sincerity, please do me the great favor of keeping my mother’s memory out of your fanged mouth.”

The Count retreated a fraction. “Alright. I promise you then.”

Will cleared his throat and nodded.

“Yes, I too am concerned with the murders Blue Bloods are perpetrating on humans.”

He stood to lock eyes with the Count. “What do you mean? Blue Bloods? Multiple?”

“I suspect an underground imperialist movement.”

“Oh,” Will groaned. “My God, the crime scenes…” he slumped back into the couch.

“Yes?”

“The victims…”

“Yes?”

“The cycle of artistic murders, they’re so purposeful-”

The Count slid next to him. “Yes?”

“No one understood the murders themselves are a message. I can show you! The killers transformed the corpses to make humans look like animals.”

“Yes.”

“One pinned like an insect, one butchered like a pig, one skinned like a rabbit.” Will shook his singing head. “It’s propaganda.”

“A signal to the other Blue Bloods, to remember what we are and the humans' proper place in the natural order.”

“But the police don’t see a handful of murders as a priority when there are breadline riots, anarchist bombings, nationalist coups. We’ve got to warn Souls- tell people.”

Hannibal’s eyes shined. “Tell them, show them so they understand. You put it together long before I did. Would you be able to produce any evidence?”

“In my room, I have photo duplicates and notes.” Will laughed with relief and disbelief. “But… you’ve been following the murder sprees too?”

“As I told you, we share a common enemy. Imperialist Blue Bloods never gave up the old order, they’ve been preparing for the next war.”

“This is incredible, I thought I’d never get the chance to understand. I felt certain the murders meant something. We have so much to talk about!”

“Yes.”


	6. Net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story for a story. Two questions are answered.  
> Will realizes what he wants.

Red Xs marked the map of Drysdon in crimson calligraphy.

One hand clutching his side, Will used the other to tap each point he named. “Behind a Church, on the steps of the courthouse, beneath the Senate, in the kitchen at Chez Guermantes, and what’s this one?”

 

Lecter eyed his grandfather clock. “That’s Drysdon University’s medical theatre.”

“When did that happen?”

“Three or four weeks ago.” The Count frowned and sat behind his desk. “Didn’t the police investigate?”

“Can’t say,” Will sighed. “I haven’t worked downtown in ages.”

“You’re looking pale again.”

“The police discovered a body at the Opera house?”

“Are you dizzy?”

“Why is this X written in pencil?”

“Please, allow me to take your pulse.”

Before the Count crossed the study, Will jerked away and raised a palm to stop him. “Yes, we’re both aware of my condition but let’s focus on the murder spree. Are you irritated by my questions?”

“Concerned for your health,” Lecter corrected. “Why don’t you take another drink?”

Will licked his pale lips and paced in front of the map. After a moment, he stopped and sat on the edge of Lecter’s mahogany desk.

“I’ll get you another glass.”

“What happened to Hank?”

Halfway to the door, the Count stopped. “Who is Hank?”

Will’s fingers drummed underneath the edge of the desk. “The wounded veteran whose room I moved into on the ground floor.”

Lecter shrugged. “Would you want me to ask after him?”

“You’re lying.”

“How is my question a lie?”

Will’s eyes narrowed. “You know to whom I’m referring. Earlier this evening, you expected Abby to pay some kind of debt regarding Garrett, but I showed up instead.”

“Why waste time on trivial details? I must retire in an hour. We’ve found we share a common cause that no one else even sees. The real question before us now is how best to use our knowledge.”

“Where is Garrett Hobbs?” Will interrupted.

“I’m uninterested in discussing trivial matters.”

“What are you interested in discussing?”

Lecter took a few meandering steps toward Will. “You said you only saw your father once? Let’s exchange stories, what happened with the Hobbs family for what happened with yours.”

As he pinched the bridge of his nose Will‘s eyes squeezed shut. “How long must I work with you?”

“That depends on our goals and accomplishments.”

Will’s hand dropped from his face and smacked his lap.

“Would you care for a drink before you start?”

“No, thank you.” Will pulled the flask from his jacket and downed more whiskey.

 

 

Some poor bastards cleared the tunnel first that day so by the time Will, Flores, and Kaufmann crawled through the tunnel was lit and safe. Given enough time and resources, vampires would set traps in the tunnel but flyboys spotted and gassed this group before his company fired on them. Wounded and in frantic retreat, the enemy scraped their way underground as the sun rose.

After driving a stake through a second Blue Blood, Will sat with his back to the black earth and pulled out his flask.

“Graham,” Flores whispered, giving Will’s sleeve a jerk. “You should, uh… let me show you something.” His broad silhouette slipped through the light.

Will followed, crossing the coven behind him.

Flores held a lantern over a Blue Blood laying in a crusted puddle of black earth. “Do you want me to burn him?”

“That vampire’s shot to hell.” Will shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

Flores wiped soil off his brow with the stiff sleeve of his uniform and offered Will his lantern.

After accepting the metal handle, Will knelt beside the body. He drew the light over the corpse until it illuminated the face. The lantern slipped from Will’s hand but he caught it with a sudden jolt.

“Is he your brother?” Flores whispered behind him at last.

Will swallowed and shook his head. “He, uh, must be my half-brother.”

“Looks just like you. Say, Graham, do you want me to burn him,” Flores repeated, his voice dropping this time to push the recommendation.

Will looked up at the blur of his friend’s head and caught the lantern shining in his eyes.

“No one else needs to know,” Flores continued, in a whisper.

“Let me take the bonus from this one, would ya?”

 

“And you’re certain that was your father?”

“My grandparents came to the cottage after my mother died. I hid under her bed while they cleaned and packed and saw a tarnished gold frame peaking between a wood slate and her mattress. Even through the colorized photograph, the resemblance unnerved me.”

Lecter crossed his hands behind his back. “And in the underground sanctuary, did you find yourself in him again?”

Will flinched. “I have his hands.”

“What did you mean about the bonus?” Lecter asked.

Will gripped his ribs with one hand and his flask in the other. “Until Blue Bloods die, their bodies reject silver. Mangled bullets often protrude from corpses so the fellas pluck them like berries. But with him, I needed to poke and dig in the wounds to wrench them out. His chest was cold and waxy… like the others.”

 

_Don’t you want me to do it?_

 

“Will, where did you go?”

“Silver is silver.” That’s what his comrades always said.

“But you wanted the ones in his body.”

He looked up, unfocused and gave his head a sobering shake. “Since regs forbid taking mementos, I decided against selling the bullets at pawn shops.”

Will took another shot. “One time, this poor baby-faced Second Lt. lost it in his first coven and kept yelling, 'It’s against regulation to disturb the corpses before you burn them! Stop poking at those bodies and stake them!'” Will laughed and coughed into his shoulder.

“What did you do with the bullets?”

“Oh,” Will’s smile faded as he screwed the top of his flask shut. “I paid to get them melted down. Here, want to see?” He tossed his flask to the Count, who hissed and dropped it.

Will smirked and rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Hannibal didn’t smile back. “The silver coats your flask?”

“And lines the inside.” Will pushed away from the table and bent to collect it off the floor.

“Did you fire at your father's squadron?”

With a grimace, Will rose to his feet. “We all did, shoulder to shoulder. There’s no way of knowing which soldiers shot him, as always. When vampires kill you though, it’s personal.” Will studied his flask with an absent fixation. “I used to have my rifle to hold while I slept through the afternoon, as soon as night fell, when a Soul cried out behind me. But they took that extension of my hands away from me after the landmine.”

“Some Blue Bloods fought to expand the empires they loved, but many others enlisted hoping to protect their home from worse imperialists. Perhaps your father acted on noble intentions.”

Will groaned, rubbing his head. He found the close proximity to Lecter uncomfortable and retreated back to the desk, sliding the flask into the pocket of his borrowed robe. 

Lecter’s silent parents stared down at Will in rich hues and pale light. 

“Or he hoped enlisting might turn things around; impress a girl, pay off a mortgage,” Will reasoned. “I doubt he fought for honorable ideals. Humans spend a lot of their deployments trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Somehow the people who drive you crazy become your friends and when they die things focus, become simple. The goal is not to die. Only once your deployment ends can you ruminate over the larger picture and then find the utter meaninglessness. Blue Bloods can’t be very different.”

“Philosophy comes easiest to spectators. How do you reflect on the war now that a few years stand between you and the deaths you witnessed?”

“Most often it seems the Blue Blood monarchs escalated a pissing contest and everyone on the battlefield were their victims. Sometimes, though, vampires seem like a pestilence- vermin which need to be purged.”

“Even that half of you which belongs to us?”

“Yes, that most of all.” After finding Lecter again he cleared his throat. “So, what happened to Garrett?”

With unnatural stillness and ease, the Count slid away, putting distance between them. Again, he turned his attention to the clock on the wall. “Since the outbreak of the war, Mr. Hobbs earned money by supplying medical universities with fresh cadavers. I suspect he lost those jobs once the doctors paying him realized the corpses were Garrett’s own victims.”

“Victims- do you mean he turned?”

Lecter blinked. “No, but he’d begun the process. Halflings respond to-”

Will raised a hand to stop him. “Yes, yes, please continue.”

“The real money is in vampire cadavers. That’s research the government will fund. That’s information that will make snooping police officers lose interest in anatomy departments. After an entrepreneurial Dean of Medicine at offered Mr. Hobbs an outrageous sum for one, he asked if I rented to any weak, young vampires, offering me a cut. I told him I found the offer offensive. Weeks later, we met under false pretenses and he tried to impale me with a sharpened baseball bat.”

Will hacked and laughed, holding his side. Garrett had been too old for conscription and must have been too paranoid to try enlisting as a human. No one with even proximal experience fighting vampires would try to attack one alone at night. “Sorry, that’s awful, but a baseball bat? Did he swing it?”

Lecter’s closed-lip smile didn’t look sharp. “No, he drew it from between his shoulder blades and rather thrust it like a spear.”

"Underhanded?" The image made Will shake his head. “Yet he made a living killing people?”

“Young girls,” Lecter clarified.

A barrage of young, mangled corpses, blind stares, soft faces frozen, screaming, flashed through Will’s mind and melted through the wallpaper. “I always hated that man.” Will rubbed his head. “So, where is Hank?”

“The man you mentioned whose room you moved into? He owed months of rent and spent his days drowning in whiskey. I’d wager he died in a gutter nursing a bottle.”

While resisting the urge to wrap his fall leaves fingers around his flask, Will forced a friendly smile. “In the war, we’d weaken Blue Bloods. Gas and silver did the work no stake or saber could unless we killed them as they slept. Even then, you need to hammer the stake through bone and cartilage. There’s a crunch and a spurt of blood, then their eyes pop open and stare right into yours before withering.” He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “How do you kill humans?”

“Excuse me?”

“How did you kill Garrett, for example?”

The Count raised an eyebrow. “By drinking from his neck until his heart stopped.”

“So now we know how we might kill one another." Silence hummed between them until, at last, Will pushed himself off the desk to his feet. "Is that what you did to Hank?”

“Both of us need to retire. Tomorrow you should have another drink. I’ll send for your belongings so we can examine the evidence you gathered. Together, we’ll make a case the press can’t ignore.”

“Press- you mean police… right?”

“Will, the police covered up these murders. Keeping such horrific crime scenes out of newspapers and Penny Dreadfuls is quite a feat.” Lecter motioned for Will to follow as he left the study.

As he slogged behind, Will’s palm traced along the wall, pushing against it when he wavered. Only his own uneven footsteps echoed through the empty hallway. “Why-why cover up the murder spree?”

“That’s a mystery you and I must solve.” The Count stopped in front of his bedroom door.

Will halted a few paces behind him and slumped into the cool stone wall. “What is your relationship to this killing spree, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal's gaze dropped to the pristine floor which only offered his guest’s reflection back to him. “The victim who first led me to these crimes– an intelligent, interesting, and good young woman– helped me when I was alone.”

A frown pooled under Will’s large gray eyes. “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.” 

Lecter glanced at the map.  “The X in pencil is where I expect the next attack will occur. Tomorrow night. I think we should go.”

“Like a stakeout? I always wanted to do that.” Will’s smiled waned. “Are you tracking the killers because you want to avenge her murder?”

“What do you want, Mr. Graham?”

Will paused, unable to produce a satisfying answer. “I’ll tell you tomorrow night.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leaving a comment is an exceptionally polite thing to do. 😁


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